American Horror Story - Season 2AU E3 - Body and Soul
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 3: Further down the spiral of madness. Tate's had his head examined. What will the verdict be? And how will Violet affect the outcome? But wait! There's more. Monsters and cultists and unnecessary medical procedures are all part of the Briarcliff experience. Written in the style of the show with a mixed cast from the first 2 seasons.
1. Chapter 1 - Religious and Nuts

"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," the man in the red flannel shirt droned over the loud speakers.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," the congregation uttered back to him in an awed voice.

They were gathered at a campground in the woods where several tents had been erected. A wooden stage had been hastily built on the northern side of the clearing and that was where the fifty-some-odd people gathered to listen to the bushy-bearded mountain man who was preaching into the mic on the stage. His reflective sunglasses and red flannel shirt made him look anything but a preacher but the rapt audience hung on his every word.

It was a damp early morning. The sky was gray, just beginning to turn pink with the coming dawn. It bathed the misty clearing in pale purple light and made it look eerie to Heather. The sixteen-year-old girl stood next to her father, hugging her middle against the chill in the air. Her clothes weren't weather-appropriate: A sleeveless flower-print frock shirt and red shorts with flip-flops. Her father's jeans and t-shirt offered him slightly more protection, as did the extra fifty pounds he carried.

He listened to Reverend Jimmy-John with the same brainwashed devotion most of the adults did. Heather had never liked the Reverend or understood why so many people did. Even his name: Jimmy-John. What kind of preacher had a name like that?

But the man was a charismatic speaker and he'd somehow managed to convince a whole mess of people to come with him out into the wilds on a spiritual retreat. Most of the congregation of the 'Church of God and Jesus' had already surrendered their money to Reverend Jimmy-John in return for getting to join him in his refuge away from the evils of the corrupt cities of man. Heather had heard more than one proud member say they'd sold their house and had given that money to the church as well.

As the backwoods preacher continued to intone the Beatitudes to the assembled crowd several people dressed in long white robes started to circulate through the masses. They carried trays bearing cups of purple liquid which they passed out to everyone they encountered. Adults with children were given a cup for their child as well. Heather's father was given two cups.

"Now, my people," Reverend Jimmy-John intoned, raising his hands. "It's time. It's time. Mothers, fathers, it's time to escort our children into the arms of the Lord!"

The congregation gave an enthusiastic response.

"Children," the preacher went on. "Drink of the blood of Christ and wash the evil of this world from your souls!"

Heather's dad handed her one of the cups and smiled at her, a peculiar look in his eyes. "Go on, honey," he said. "Do it for God. Do it for Jesus."

The girl looked into the cup. It looked like purple Kool-Aid. She didn't like purple Kool-Aid - or any fake grape flavor. She was about to say so when she noticed a little boy not far from them suddenly collapse. His mother knelt down beside him and scooped his head into her lap but otherwise didn't offer him any assistance.

Heather was trying to figure out what had happened when another nearby child - this one an older girl - also collapsed. Then another child. And another. One by one the kids in the throng were dropping to the ground. Some of their parents cried but many just held them.

"Go on, honey," her father murmured more urgently now. "Drink it."

There were sounds in the congregation now, children moaning and crying. Vomiting.

"What is it?" Heather felt a lance of fear shoot through her.

"Just drink it, honey," he insisted. "You have to. It's for God."

The wails in the crowd were getting louder. She saw one child being forced to drink from one of the cups by his parents.

"Shh," Reverend Jimmy-John said soothingly into the microphone. "Don't cry. This is not death. This is the way to a new life! Mothers, fathers, hold your children. Tell them there is nothing to fear."

Heather's alarm mushroomed into full-blown panic. Everywhere around her people were dying and her father wanted her to be one of them. She saw a flurry of motion near the edge of the congregation. One teen boy was making a run for it. He didn't get far; one of Jimmy-John's henchmen was after him immediately and brought him back to the fold where he, too, was force-fed the stuff.

She looked back to her father, who looked worried. If she said no, would he force her to drink it? She wasn't sure and that scared her even more. Heart racing and hands shaking, she brought the cup to her lips.

On the speaker system Reverend Jimmy-John had to abandon his soothing tone to be heard above the din. "Parents, it's your time! All of my flock, it's time to make the ascension! It's time! Drink, my brethren, and heaven is ours!"

Heather's dad smiled, features relaxing greatly. "I love you, sweetie," he whispered. He kissed the top of her strawberry blonde head then upended his cup. "Let's... let's sit together."

He gathered her in a hug and sank to the ground with her. She didn't resist. In just a few moments he began to convulse and gag. Seconds later he lay still, tongue protruding slightly between his pale lips. Heather immediately spat out the liquid she'd kept in her mouth. Very few people were still on their feet. When the reverend's henchmen started shooting those people, Heather laid down close to her dead father's side and tried to look dead.

She stayed that way for a long time listening to them finish off the survivors. She felt half-frozen there on the damp ground but she was too terrified to move. Then she heard the sound of a helicopter followed shortly by a man's voice on a bullhorn.

"We have you surrounded! Don't try to run! You are under arrest!"

A small stampede ensued as Jimmy-John and his co-conspirators scrambled to escape. Guns were fired. Eventually everything quieted down but still Heather lay still. She had no idea who won or where anyone was. One wrong move could mean a bullet in the brain. So she lay there, freezing, too scared to shiver.

It took the SWAT team nearly an hour to reach her. When they did, she still didn't know who was who and when one of the fatigue-clad men touched her arm she bolted upright with a feral scream and leapt on him with the idea that she would attack before she could be shot. Surprised, he shoved the hysterical teen off him.

"Holy shit, one survived!" exclaimed another rescue worker.

"Get her to an ambulance!" someone else hollered.

She was quickly restrained and rushed off to the nearest hospital. Too hysterical to manage, she would be sedated, evaluated and treated, and then sent to Briarcliff.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**Monday**

"The folks at the hospital said she wouldn't speak," said Sister Jude. She was sitting at her desk looking at the file of the newest admission to Briarcliff. "Hasn't said a word since they found her there at the cult camp."

Sister Mary Eunice shook her head slowly, aghast. "Shocking," she murmured. "How could one person manage to convince so many to do such a thing?"

"Mass suicide?" said Sister Jude. She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Hitler talked a whole country into mass genocide. Some people just have 'it', I suppose."

"But why couldn't they use their charisma for good?" wondered the younger nun.

"God only knows," Sister Jude said brusquely.

"Should I give her a gown?"

"Heavens no!" said Sister Jude, offended by the suggestion. "Give her a full uniform. The poor girl's suffered enough already."

Sister Mary nodded and left the senior nun's office to go tend to the new patient.

...

Tate's second weekend at Briarcliff was much the same as the first. He still wasn't on any special lists for jobs or classes. Church was as dull as the previous time. He spent the majority of mass glaring at the statue of Saint Mary that stood behind the Reverend Monsignor.

The saints that Catholic churches displayed in their audience halls creeped him out. Life-sized and painted, they always seemed to be staring at a person no matter where one sat in the chapel. He supposed their expressions were intended to be serene but they didn't look it. Theirs was a strange dead-eyed breed of accusing stare.

Typically Tate avoided meeting those stares but that day he had challenged the Mother Mary herself. How could she be so high and mighty in a place where people like Max and Sister Jude held the reins of power?

He was still brooding by Monday afternoon. He hadn't been chatty all weekend but the people he'd come to think of as something like friends didn't pester him about it. He had a head full of frustration and theories he was saving to spew at Dr. Thredson later that day. About the only thing he said had to do with asking for cigarettes.

Tate was sitting on the end of a couch next to John, who was writing. Shelley was nearby in an old armchair trying to knit using just her fingers and a length of yarn she'd swiped from Art Therapy. Each was quietly minding their own business when a skinny young woman charged into their midst. Her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair was tangled and the look on her face was nothing short of crazed.

"You!" she exclaimed, leveling a finger at Tate. "Murderer! Agent of Satan!"

Tate regarded her like the insane person she was. "Leave me alone."

"You will be judged!" the teen girl shrilled. "The lives you took taint your immortal soul!"

She was beginning to attract attention. Billie Dean wasn't far away and she moved to the younger woman's side, eyeing the nearest orderly warily. Carl was the only orderly on duty that afternoon and while he'd noticed the outburst he wasn't inclined to do anything about it just yet.

"Please," Billie Dean said to the girl as she gently took her skinny wrist. She offered the younger woman a weak smile. "You don't want to get in trouble."

The blonde girl allowed Billie Dean to lead her away but she continued to stare at Tate intently until it became physically impossible to.

"Crazy bitch," Tate muttered. He glanced at Shelley who offered him a supportive half-smile.

...

"What's your name?" Billie Dean asked the girl as she led her away.

"Heather."

"I'm Billie Dean," the woman smiled. She ushered the girl to chair on the far side of the piano, near the record player, where Tate couldn't be seen from any angle. "Billie Dean Howard."

She settled into her seat and waited for a sign of recognition but the girl had grown up in a backward community and had never heard of the medium or her radio show.

"You're new here," Billie Dean plowed ahead. "I'm still fairly new myself. I really shouldn't be here though. I'm not crazy."

"Then why are you here?" Heather's question wasn't accusatory.

The older woman lifted her slim shoulders in a little shrug then examined her fingernails. Her manicure was suffering. It had only been a few days and already she'd broken one nail and chipped the polish on three. "I told someone something they didn't want to hear."

That didn't make any sense to Heather. "Like what?"

Billie Dean's lips formed a thin line and she looked at the younger woman grimly. "I told them someone they loved was dead."

"Were they?"

"Yes."

"Then why'd they lock you up?"

Billie Dean offered her a sad smile. "Because they didn't believe my source." She paused, then added: "I'm a medium. I can speak with the dead."

Heather lifted her pointed chin a little. "Oh."

Billie Dean's smile grew rueful. "It's okay. Most people who don't know me don't believe me. I'm not offended if you don't."

The girl just stared at her.

"Why are you in here?" Billie Dean asked.

Heather blinked and seemed to come out of a daze. "The preacher at my church killed everybody."

The medium pressed a hand to her collarbone. "Gracious! Everyone?"

"Everyone except me."

Stunned, Billie Dean reached for one of the girl's hands. She'd meant it as a supportive gesture but when she touched her, Heather yanked her hand away like she'd been burned.

"I'm sorry," Billie Dean apologized, both for touching without asking and in general sympathy.

Heather shifted in her seat. "Me too," she said softly. She folded her arms over her middle and stared at her lap.

Billie Dean's heart hurt for the girl. So young and wounded. "If you ever need a friend," she said. "I'm here for you. I won't pretend to know what you're going through but I do want to help if I can."

Heather gave a shrug and a nod but didn't look up.

...

"So she's the only survivor?" Tate said in his therapy session a couple of hours later. "Did they torture her?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss the details of the case," said Dr. Thredson. "Just understand that she's bound to be extremely emotional after what she went through. Seeing someone with a... history like yours must have triggered something."

"Are they going to keep her locked up now?"

"No," said the doctor. "The two of you are going to have to find a way to live together. Just... try to stay away from her if you can. It would be better for both of you, I think."

"Easy for you to say."

"It will be easier than you think," assured the doctor. "So how was your meeting with Doctor Heath?"

Tate shrugged. Despite the pain medication he was on, he was still feeling very surly. He'd had nightmares about his encounter with Max. He knew he should probably tell Dr. Thredson about what had happened but it was too humiliating. Plus it would put Violet at risk. He didn't want her to get fired. She was one of the only things in Briarcliff that he had to look forward to.

"He said we wouldn't know if there's anything weird for a couple days or so," he paraphrased.

Oliver nodded and jotted down a couple of quick notes. Then he looked at his patient. "At the risk of sounding very cliche'... if you don't mind, Tate, I'd like to ask you more about your mother."

.. .

Tate was thirteen. It was the Saturday before Halloween. His mother had been in and out of the house twice that day. The first time she left, she was in a good mood. When she returned she barely said anything to him. She just went straight to her bedroom where she stayed for the next five hours.

When she finally emerged, she fed the dogs and fixed Tate and his siblings some supper which she ate with them without saying a word to anyone. She only rolled her eyes once when Addie made a bad joke. It wasn't an affectionate expression either; it was a look that said she thought her daughter was being tiresome and irritating.

Tate tried to lighten the mood with talk of Halloween and his brother and sister happily took the bait but his mother was having none of it. After dinner she left without even tidying up the kitchen. Tate spent the next three hours hanging out with Beau and Adelaide. When the time came he helped Addie get Beau ready for bed. Then he and Addie both got ready for bed and went to their respective rooms. Neither slept.

It was another hour before Tate heard his mother's car pull up. He put aside the book about birds he'd been looking at and got out of bed. It wasn't his plan to confront her when he left his room. He was looking for reassurance. His feelings were hurt by her day-long silent treatment. The boy didn't feel he or his siblings had done anything to deserve it but he wasn't entirely sure. Sometimes his mother got mad at them for things that they weren't aware they were doing wrong.

He mostly just wanted to be able to go to bed and sleep. If he tried to sleep without making sure he hadn't done something bad he would never relax. If he was going to be punished, he wanted to know why.

Tate met her in the living room when she let herself in. She wasn't drunk, which was a relief. It meant he could talk to her - in theory.

"Welcome back," he said.

She shoved her keys in her purse and flicked a sour glance his way. "Go to bed."

Constance swished passed him then, heading fpr her bedroom. Hurt all over again, Tate followed her.

"What's the matter, mama?" he asked. "Did we do something wrong?"

He followed her into her bedroom and watched her remove her jewelry.

"I don't want to talk about it," the woman said shortly.

That response didn't reassure him. "Can you just tell me if I did something?"

She shut her eyes in that way that said she was resisting the urge to scream and hit.

"I had a bad day. I don't want to talk about it," she said tightly. She opened her eyes and fixed him with a withering stare. "I just want to go to bed."

But at that point he wasn't sure whether she was saying that because it was true or because he had done something bad and she just didn't want to get into it with him so late. It wouldn't be the first time one of them had lied to the other in order to avoid an inevitable screaming match. So he just stood there indecisively till her cold silence finally drove him away.

He went back to his room and curled up in the middle of his bed. It seemed like she hated him most of the time anymore. And when he wasn't messing up she ignored him. At some point he had crossed some invisible line with her where it didn't matter what he did, he would always fall short of what he should do or be. He just wasn't good enough. He wasn't perfect.

.. .

Tate sagged in his chair, his dark eyes finding a corner of the ceiling. He didn't want to talk about Constance.

Noting the reaction, Doctor Thredson verbally retreated. "Are you comfortable with that? We can talk about something else, if you like."

In spite of his bad mood, Tate appreciated the man's backing off. "Let's talk about something else."

"All right," agreed Thredson, noting that without writing it down. "Why don't you tell me what you're comfortable with talking about."

The blond boy gnawed a bit of dead skin off his thumb then said, "Can I have a cigarette?"

Oliver pushed the pack and lighter across the desk toward him. After a moment the teen sat up to take them.

"Why did you decide to be a shrink?" he asked once he had a cigarette lit.

"I want to help people," said the doctor. "People like you."

"People like me," Tate echoed like he was tasting the words. "Have you met lots of people like me?"

"No," Dr. Thredson admitted. "No one quite like you."

"I hope that's a good thing," joked the teen, not sure whether he should be flattered or not.

The doctor smiled. "It's not a bad thing." His expression became thoughtful. "I believe therapists and patients are like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The skills of specific doctors are best suited to the needs of specific patients. No doctor can be everything to everyone. Even a 'general practitioner' doesn't practice dentistry or perform heart surgery."

"I'm glad you think so," Tate smiled. "Because I've been talking with Doctor Harmon."

Oliver stared at the teen for a moment then forced a small smile. "I thought we'd agreed to wait on any sessions with Doctor Harmon."

Tate widened his dark eyes and glanced about, searching his memory. "I don't remember that. I just remember me asking you about it and you saying you didn't think it was a good idea." He sucked on his cigarette and tapped it in the ashtray.

Dr. Thredson's smile dissolved. "I still don't think it's a good idea."

"But you sent me to Doctor Heath."

"Doctor Heath is a surgeon, not a psychiatrist."

"What's wrong, doc?" Tate asked with a crooked grin. "Jealous?"

Oliver folded his hands on the desk. "Why do you want to talk to him?"

Tate shrugged a shoulder and his lower lip pooched out a little as he considered. "I don't know. I guess because he's all hot to talk to me. It's kind of funny."

The doctor didn't find it funny at all. "How many times have you seen him in a session?"

"You are jealous!"

Dr. Thredson leveled a flat gaze at his patient. "No. I'm concerned that my colleague has deliberately overstepped certain boundaries he shouldn't be overstepping. This could be a serious matter."

Tate's amusement dried up. "We just talked for a little bit. Once. We didn't even talk about anything important. And he said he wanted to talk to you about my medicine before we got together again or anything. I'm sure he's not, like, trying to do weird shit behind your back or anything." He brightened then. "And he recorded it too. You know. If you wanted to know what was said?"

Thredson attempted a smile but came out more like a grimace. "Thank you, Tate. I think I'd like to have a chat with Doctor Harmon before we continue. I'll have Cecil take you back to your room. "

..

Oliver wasn't able to track down the other doctor till late that afternoon, when the man was getting ready to go home. Ben already had his briefcase packed and was putting his jacket on when Thredson entered his office.

"I can see you're anxious to leave," he said. "So I'll get straight to the point. The recording of the unauthorized session you had with my patient? I want it."

The man's attitude rubbed Ben the wrong way. "I don't need your authorization to speak to a patient who seeks out my counsel."

"Actually? You do," said Oliver. "If you'd like we can bring the matter to Sister Jude and let her decide what to do about it."

Ben was unimpressed. "What's your problem? I'm just trying to help."

"There are plenty of other people in this institution who need your help."

"Amazingly, I have the ability to help more than one person," said Ben with a smile. "I'm versatile that way."

"Just make sure that tape is on my desk in the morning," Oliver said, irritation leaking into his tone.

He left then, quick steps taking him back to his office where he grabbed his own things and left the building. He saw Ben further out in the parking lot and when he got his car started he wound up having to follow the man out. They crossed the bridge and merged with freeway traffic. Ordinarily Oliver would head for the north lane and follow the wide strip of road around to his side of town but this time he kept to the middle lane.

He allowed a couple of cars to get between his and Ben's vehicles but he kept the other man in sight. When Ben's car pulled off the freeway, Oliver tailed him at a distance. He followed his co-worker all the way home, stopping a few houses down when he saw Ben pull into a driveway. From there Oliver watched him get out and head into the house. He jotted down the street address then sat staring at the home for several minutes before finally driving off.

...

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

Happy Halloween!

So. A few things here. First: The fact that the backwoods preacher's name is "Jimmy" is a coincidental overlap with AHS Season 4. This chapter was written before I knew any of the characters' names. I could rack it up to an uncanny ability to predict the future but in actuality, I named him Jimmy-John after a restaurant chain I was mad at when I was writing this part. It really is just wild coincidence. Often when I'm mad at someone or something I'll write them into a story with something awful happening to them or around them. It's cathartic.

Moving along... The whole opening scene was a cross between the Jonesburg massacre and the Heaven's Gate mass suicide. Believe it or not, this sort of thing really does happen. Repeatedly throughout history. Heather is a name taken from Silent Hill 3. It's probably my all-time favorite horror video game.

Lastly: I'd forgotten Oliver Thredson was a freak until that last scene. Yikes.

That's it for this one. Have a safe and scary Halloween!


	2. Chapter 2 - Let's Talk

...

The next morning Oliver got to work early. He'd been so irritated the night before that he hadn't slept much but the demeanor he presented when he arrived at the asylum was as well-groomed and professional as ever. The only sign he wasn't well-rested was in the shadows beneath his dark eyes.

He went in through the main entrance with the intention to head directly to his office but the Reverend Monsignor stopped him in the foyer.

"Good morning, Doctor Thredson," the priest smiled.

"Good morning," he returned. "How are you?"

"Well enough," said the Monsignor. He fell into step with Oliver, determined to chat with him. "I was wanting to let you know: There's been a slight change to your patient roster."

That was significant enough to distract the doctor from his thoughts of Ben. "What?"

"There's a patient... Billie Dean Howard," the priest said, wringing his hands. "You know her?"

"Yes. The radio psychic."

"Yes. She's- I would like you to take over as her primary therapist. She's having... issues with Doctor Galloway. Nothing serious. She just doesn't feel comfortable with him."

It hadn't escaped Oliver that the Monsignor and the patient shared a last name. "Is she kin of yours?"

The priest gave him an apologetic smile. "A cousin. Distant. But she's a nice girl. I'd like to see her get the best treatment Briarcliff can offer."

The words stroked the psychiatrist's ego and for the first time that morning, Oliver Thredson smiled. "Thank you for considering me in that capacity, Reverend. I'll do what I can."

Monsignor Reverend Howard smiled and gave Oliver's shoulder a quick pat. "I knew I could count on you."

...

**Tuesday**

Tate had grown up with two older siblings who were clinically defined as retarded. They called his sister, Adelaide, a Mongloid idiot. They didn't even have a catch-all term to describe Beauregard apart from 'freak'. But Beau was no freak. He was the most beautiful person Tate had ever met. Beau never got angry. He never lied. He was full of love and hugs and gentleness. Even though his body didn't work right and he couldn't talk like most people, Tate never had to wonder what was in his heart or what he meant.

So when he met Vita, Tate wasn't put off by her lumpy, misshapen appearance or the fact that her body seemed to twitch and flail beyond her control; she moved like she was on the deck of a typhoon-tossed ship. It was a type of abnormality he understood. He'd seen her once or twice, in the commons or in the pill line, but he hadn't actually interacted with her till the day he went to see what was on the bookshelf near the piano.

Vita's favorite place to be in the commons was beside the bookcase. It gave her easy access to the picture books on the bottom shelf and people didn't step on her as much there. Her legs were so twisted and heavy with bubble-like growths of flesh that walking was uncomfortable and something she only did when she had to.

She was technically in her forties but she had the mind of a five year old and when Tate came over she smiled up at him like she'd been waiting all her life to see him. It was a sloppy smile: She drooled and her tongue stuck out briefly without her consent. But her teeth were surprisingly straight for one so deformed.

"What a pretty smile you have," Tate said.

Vita wasn't used to compliments. Her green eyes got really wide and then her grin got super huge. She turned her head coyly and flailed, incredibly flattered.

"What are you reading?" he asked then, noticing the fabric book on the floor in front of her.

Vita grabbed the book and threw it at him happily. Because it was cloth, it bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. He smiled and picked it up. Turning the pages, he could see it used to be a toddler's busy book but all the buttons and laces and interactive pieces had been removed. The dress-up felt doll had no hair or eyes. There were just some black smudges where the eyes used to be and a ghastly red gash of a thread mouth frayed at one corner so badly it looked like it was a vampire.

"What a great book," he said, pumping in conviction he didn't feel.

He handed the book back to her and she snatched it happily.

"I'm Tate," he said.

"Vee-da!" she said, slapping her chest with a crooked hand. "Vee-da!" Then she laughed, amused by her own cleverness.

Tate smiled, both dimples showing. "That's a great name. Vita. It means 'life'." He shifted in his crouch beside her, propping his elbows on his knees. "Tate means 'cheerful'. Together, we're a cheerful life."

Vita crowed a laugh, though it was more in delight at him talking to her than it was her getting the joke. And then a pair of legs ran between them. Tate looked up and saw a naked skinny man attached to legs. The man had a weird look on his face and he grabbed Vita's book right out of her hand. She squealed like a stuck pig.

"Hey!" Tate objected, rising to his feet. "You can't just take that from her!"

On eye-level with the other guy, Tate could tell that he too was retarded. He wasn't as bad off as Vita but he had the same sloped features Addie had. He also had a mean look in his eyes as he gripped the cloth book with both hands.

"Mine!" he said loudly.

"It's not yours," Tate said, trying to be patient. "Give it back."

Vita continued to squeal and flail on the floor, working up to a full tantrum.

"Mine!" the man repeated, even more loudly. He stomped his bare feet, making a slapping noise on the tile. "It's mine!"

Tate glanced around the room. There were only two staff members monitoring the commons and they were busy talking to each other. So Tate reached over and tore the book out of the man's hands. The guy tried to charge in to take it back but the teen scampered backward, out of his reach.

Immediately the naked man began to howl. The sound echoed in the room and caught the attention of the orderlies.

"It's mine! It's mine! It's MINE!" the naked man shrieked and launched himself at Tate.

Tate backpedaled further, hiding the book behind his back. "Back off!"

With looks of annoyance the orderlies left their spots and closed in. Tate saw them coming and felt panic begin to rise. But he couldn't just give the book back to the crazy guy. It was Vita's.

The naked man lashed out while Tate was distracted and caught him in the side of the head with a balled-up fist. It wasn't a proper punch but it still hurt. Then the orderlies were there. Tate was afraid they were going to dog-pile him but they both grabbed the naked man, who started to scream bloody murder.

Surprised, Tate just stood there and watched them haul the guy away. One of the men punched the hysterical retarded man in the head twice and that dazed him enough to get him out of the room. Soon after his shouts started up again, echoing in from the hall before fading away.

There was a brief moment of stillness that followed in which the only sound was that of the record player grinding out "Dominique" like always. Then life resumed in the commons.

"Here," Tate said, handing the book back to the disabled woman on the floor. "Sorry."

Vita smiled her drippy, happy smile at him again and hugged the book. "Tate!" she crowed. "Tate! Tate!"

"What was that all about?" Shelley wanted to know. She'd seen the meltdown and had come over to investigate.

Tate shrugged. "That guy took Vita's book. I took it back for her."

"That was nice of you," Shelley said. "You're such a gentleman." She crowded up close to him from behind then. "You deserve a reward." She ran her hands up his back.

"Not now," he said. "Me and Vita were talking about books."

Shelley stepped back and regarded him like she wasn't sure if he was joking. "You'd rather spend time with_ her_ than fuck me?"

Vita waved her book about, oblivious to the conversation.

Tate shrugged again. "I just don't feel like it right now. Okay, Shelley?"

She stood there glaring at him in outrage for a few seconds longer. "Fine!" she declared at last, folding her arms. "Fuck you. I'll find somebody else to have fun with. I don't need you. Lots of guys here want a piece of my action."

"Yeah, I know," he said, letting his irritation get the better of him. He clamped down on it quickly before he said something he might regret later. "Look. My head just really hurts right now. Catch me after lunch pill line."

"Whatever," huffed Shelley. She stormed off then to find someone else to proposition. Someone who wouldn't say no.

Tate watched her till Vita threw the book at him again. It bounced off his thigh and onto the floor. He grinned and sat down to look at the pages with her.

...

Oliver was just finishing reading Billie Dean's file when a there was a knock at his door. He had wanted to spend the time listening to the tape Dr. Harmon had left on his desk but there was no time. He would have to listen to it later. A frustrating but necessary delay.

"Come in."

The door opened and a woman in her late twenties stepped in. Her blonde hair hung flat around her face, stripped of the fancy coif it had held when she had first arrived at Briarcliff. Her manicure was a disaster but she still managed to carry herself with grace and dignity.

"Doctor Thredson?"

"Yes," he said, putting on a mild smile. "You're Billie Dean Howard. Please. Sit."

She sat down, arranging her blue jumper primly. While she made herself comfortable, Oliver started the tape recorder that would record her session.

"Do you smoke?" Dr. Thredson asked, offering her the pack.

She smiled and took one then accepted the lighter he handed her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he smiled in return. "So how have you been adjusting to life here at Briarcliff?"

Billie Dean grimaced and pulled a drag off the cigarette she held. "Just that: Adjusting."

"I understand you had a radio show before you came here," the doctor prompted.

She tried to smile but the look soured before it could surface. "I did. A pretty damned successful one too."

"Do you genuinely believe you see and speak to ghosts?" he asked carefully.

Billie Dean folded her an arm over her middle and propped the other elbow on it so she could keep her cigarette close to her lips. "I don't 'believe' it, doctor. I know I do. I have for a few years now."

"So... this isn't an ability you were born with?" Dr. Thredson prompted. He figured he would indulge her delusion for the sake of mapping it out better.

"No," she said with a flicker of a rueful smile. "I happened to have a very enlightening conversation with my maid one day in the bathroom. She was dead at the time. Horrible mess. Suicide. You'd think a maid would have better sense than to leave such a scene behind." It was supposed to be a joke but she was in too bitter a mood to deliver it well.

"What sorts of things do ghosts tell you?"

Billie Dean could tell he was just feeling her out; that he didn't really believe in her skills as a medium. She was used to skepticism though so it didn't bother her. "Different ones say different things. They're just people. They have wants and fears and worries and problems, just like the living. The main difference is they have less power to do anything about them than the living do."

The creativity of her delusion privately amazed Thredson. "Were you interested in ghosts and hauntings growing up?"

"No," she smirked. She pulled a drag off her cigarette and exhaled. "Sure, I read a Nancy Drew book or two in my time but I was brought up in a sensible household. Believe me, if I could? I would be rid of this 'gift' of mine. But it's not in my power to control it. I can channel it to a degree but I can't shut the dead out. I had one of them in my room just the other night."

"Here at Briarcliff?" Oliver asked, fascinated.

"Yes, sir," she said, snubbing out the cigarette. "I think she wanted my help."

"Did you see her? Or just hear her?"

"I only saw her," said the woman.

"Interesting. What did she look like?"

"She's a little girl," Billie Dean said, remembering. "Skinny and neglected. Pale. Long blond hair. She wanted me to follow her. She was beckoning to me but then she passed through the door and was gone."

"What do you think she wanted?"

"I have no idea."

"How long was she with you?"

"Only a few seconds. Not even a couple of minutes, I wouldn't say."

"Is this typical of the sorts of things you see?"

She thought for a moment then smiled. "There is no typical moment or thing I see, Doctor Thredson. Every spirit is different and so is every encounter."

"I see," said Oliver. He lit a cigarette of his own. "Your radio show... How did that fit in?"

"I would take calls and letters from listeners," Billie Dean supplied. "People who wanted to talk to their dead loved ones."

The doctor consulted his file folder. "I understand you were brought here in regards to your stalking a family about their missing son?"

Billie Dean sighed. "He came to me. Just the sweetest thing... His name was Isaac. He was eight. He..." She paused as emotion briefly overtook her. It was always difficult to think about the details of the dead, more so when it was a child. "He didn't know... where his body was," she said, speaking quietly. Tears swam in her eyes so she avoided blinking. "He just knew he'd been playing near the woods when the strange man asked him to help him find his lost puppy. He told me the man... choked him. And stabbed him. And left him in the woods. A thrill kill of convenience."

She blinked hard then and quickly smudged away the tear that rolled down her cheek. She sniffed delicately and lifted her chin. "He wanted to let his parents know what had happened so they wouldn't have to wonder anymore. He said they were making themselves sick with not knowing. He thought if they knew... they could focus on finding his body."

"What did you do then?"

"Well, I went to them," said Billie Dean. "What else could I do? He needed my help. No one was..." She looked pained again and her eyes got moist once more. "No one was there for him when he needed help. How could I say no?" She tried a smile but it faltered and died quickly. "So I tried calling them. I told them who I was. They'd heard of me and weren't interested. Skeptics. They thought I was trying to use their tragedy to boost my career. They didn't want to speak to me. But I'd made a promise to Isaac so I went to their home. They shut me out again."

She plucked a tissue from the box and dabbed her nose. Once she'd thrown it away she folded her hands in her lap and looked at Dr. Thredson. "The poor boy was so distraught! He wanted so badly for them to understand. But they just... couldn't." She sighed heavily, her gaze falling to the floor. "The third time I went, the police were waiting. As far as I know, his body is still out there in the woods. That poor boy!"

When he'd agreed to take her on as a patient, Oliver had been less than thrilled. He already had a full patient load and couldn't spend as much time as he wanted with them as it was. Tate Langdon on his own required almost constant supervision. But after hearing her story, the doctor was fascinated.

"You seem to have a strong maternal instinct," he commented, deciding not to address the general delusion yet. "But there's no mention in your file of your having children of your own."

The blonde woman smiled dryly. "No. There wouldn't be. I'm sterile."

. ..

**1955 - Nevada**

Operation Plumbbob was in full swing and so were the experiments in nearby towns - towns that didn't know they were getting hit with fallout from the explosions. Children played in the ash like it was snow. Along with the fallout, the town Billie Dean lived in was also being used for human testing. Pregnant mothers were spoon-fed a 'medicine' they were told was a prenatal vitamin that was, in reality, radioactive iron that would later kill their babies. Another study involved a group of mentally disabled children who were tricked into joining a "science club" were fed radioactive chemicals as part of their "club activities".

Billie Dean grew up in the thick of the nuclear testing as unaware of her situation as anyone. In the years that would follow she would see her childhood friends drop dead from uterine, renal and colon cancer. She would see deformed stillborns and adults with rashes and hair loss. Remarkably she would be spared most of the ill effects but her womb was permanently damaged.

. ..

"I'm sorry," said Dr. Thredson sympathetically. "You wanted a family?"

"It's part of the American dream, isn't it?" she smiled, to cover the pain. "For a while I thought of my career as sort of a child. But... well. Now that I'm here..."

"Let's stay focused on now," the doctor encouraged gently.

"So what happens now?" she said.

Oliver sat back in his chair. "The strategy at this point is counseling. You don't seem dangerous to me," he smiled and she smiled back.

"You're going to... try to talk me out of believing I can see dead people?"

The doctor's smile widened a little. "I'm hoping to discover with you why you feel the need to believe you do."

She arched a brow at him. "You think I want decaying corpses waking me up in the middle of the night moaning and dripping on me?"

"Is that something that happens to you often?"

Billie Dean looked sour. "Not often. But it has happened."

"And what did you do?"

Normally a person's disbelief didn't bother the medium but his gently probing questions weren't interest; he was mapping her out and she was getting tired of it.

"I dealt with it," she said. "Like I deal with everything life throws at me."

"What's wrong, Billie Dean?"

She sat back and crossed her legs. "Nothing, doctor. Just a little tired, is all. Do you think we could wrap this up? I'd like to go lay down."

Dr. Thredson nodded, making a mental note of when her mood shifted. "I think we're at a good point to stop," he agreed. "It was nice to talk with you. I'll set up your next session. Sister Mary Eunice will let you know when it is."

After Billie Dean left, Oliver sat as his desk, deep in thought. Could she be... the one?

...

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

About the bit regarding nuclear testing in 1955: For the purposes of this story, I had three majorly horrible classified acts happen in one town. In reality, all three types of testing DID take place in the USA but not all three at one place. Funny. That doesn't read as comforting as I thought it would. The fact is... The government has notoriously done testing on civilians, the insane and infirmed, and the military for decades. Most of the stuff from the 50s is now declassified so you can read up on it yourself if you're curious.

Next chapter things get uglier. We're starting the slippery slope into the dark now. If you've read my fic before, you know I like to play nice when we start out. I call it the kiss before the kill. Get you all comfy-cozy then pull the rug out. Yep. That's when the real fun begins.


	3. Chapter 3 - Seclusion

...

**Wednesday**

The next meeting Tate had was with both Doctors Thredson and Heath in a small room near the admitting office of the hospital. Dr. Thredson looked grim as Dr. Heath clipped several pieces of film to the light box on the wall. They were all grayscale images of Tate's brain and even he, untrained as he was, could tell by looking that something was wrong. There was a golf-ball sized mass right where his headaches were worst.

"So that's it, huh?" Tate asked, wondering why he didn't feel scared looking at the images. He didn't feel anything looking at them. "I've got a tumor. So. What next?"

The doctors glanced briefly at each other.

"Surgery is the only way to proceed at this point," said Dr. Heath. "And it's critical that we do it soon."

"Whoa, no," said Tate, holding up both hands defensively. "I said no cutting."

"Tate, there's no other way to treat the growth," reasoned Dr. Thredson. "You don't have to worry. Doctor Heath is Briarcliff's head surgeon and he's one of the top in the state."

"No," said Tate stubbornly. "I'm not letting anyone carve my skull open and play around with my brains. Just forget it."

"If it's left untreated," said Dr. Heath. "The growth _will_ kill you. As it is, your optical nerves are already beginning to suffer. I suspect it may be at least partly responsible for some of the hallucinations you've reported having."

"Something's got to kill me eventually," Tate reasoned, ignoring the bit about hallucinations. He knew he hadn't hallucinated anything.

"We'll give you some time to think about it," said Dr. Thredson. "In the meantime I'll give you something to control the pain. But you have to understand your time to consider is limited."

"I don't need any time," insisted Tate. "I don't want surgery."

"Allen," Dr. Heath said, raising his voice a little to reach the orderly in the hall. When the white-clad man appeared, the doctor said to him: "Please escort the patient back to his room."

..

Once the orderly had removed Tate from the room, Oliver looked at his colleague with open concern.

"I don't think he's going to give consent," he said.

"We don't need his consent," reminded Dr. Heath as he pulled the images of Tate's brain down from the wall. "It's just a social convenience at this point. If he doesn't agree to the surgery by the end of the week, we'll proceed anyway, and treat it as a Code Nine."

Dr. Thredson sighed softly and nodded. "I just hope it doesn't come to that."

..

The initial shock began to wear off on the way back to his cell and Tate tried to come to terms with the idea that there was a clump of mutated cells growing in his skull. For some reason knowing that made his head hurt more. For the first time since he'd come to Briarcliff he wanted to talk to his mother.

"You're that guy who shot all them people from the clock tower," Allen the orderly said. "Aren'tcha?"

Tate didn't feel like talking and he definitely didn't feel like talking about that subject. So he didn't say anything.

"Hey, asswipe," the man said, grabbing the teen by the collar of his asylum-issued button-down shirt. "I'm talkin' to you."

Tate looked him in the eye and just sneered at him. The man couldn't make him speak.

It was a fact that enraged the orderly. He punched the teen in the middle, knocking the wind out of him. Tate dropped in a heap, clutching his middle. It left him defenseless against the punch to the face that followed. It was hard punch, lucky in its aim. The blow put him out instantly.

...

Tate woke that evening in his cell being yelled at to get up. Disoriented and aching, at first he thought the orderly was rousting him for dinner. It was just the daily lock-out. With wakefulness came a rush of memory: The walk in the hall, the orderly's fist coming at him...

Tate's middle and jaw hurt. Leaning against the wall helped the first but there wasn't much to do about the second. He considered lodging a complaint but it would be his word against the orderly's as to what had happened. He was so mired in self-pity he hardly noticed the guards begin to toss the cells. He'd seen the routine before and had no interest in it.

Then there was a sharp whistle from within his room. A guard appeared in the doorway and crooked his finger at his partner, who emerged from another cell. Tate's heart froze. There was only one reason he could think of that would make both of them go in there. Sister Jude and Patrick, on hand for the inspection, shadowed the guard. Sister Jude looked smug; the orderly looked ready for anything.

"We found these," one of the guards said in a serious tone.

Tate shut his eyes.

"Make sure his doctor knows," said Sister Jude sternly.

The teen felt strong hands grab his upper arms. He didn't resist. When he opened his eyes they were rimmed with tears but he refused to let anxiety overwhelm him.

The collection of pills they removed from his mattress was impressive, even to him. He hadn't taken them all out before and seeing the bag of medication that left his room, he actually felt kind of proud. It was a short-lived feeling. Sister Jude's chilly look when she addressed him was sufficient to remind him of how much trouble he was in.

"I heard you wanted permission to go to the library," she said. She smiled then, a look that was just as cold as her previous stare. "I'm afraid that's a privilege reserved for our guests who can follow rules."

She looked up at Patrick then. "Take him to the seclusion room. T-suspension."

And they were moving, the orderly steering the patient by the arms down the hall toward the entrance to the underground tunnels.

"Wait," said Tate, trying to dig his heels in. It didn't work; Patrick was stronger than he was. "Wait. Where are we going?"

The orderly didn't answer. He just hustled the teen down the sloping passageway into the bowels of the asylum. They entered a dim hallway lined with dark iron doors. They passed through one of those and into a small dungeon of a room. Dark stone walls. No windows. And the manacles Patrick fastened onto Tate's wrists and ankles were downright medieval in nature. Two-and-a-half cranks of a wheel on the far wall and the teen's arms were pulled straight out from his sides.

T-suspension. His ankles were fastened to the floor by chain so short he couldn't even lift his feet. An experimental tug on the chain of one arm found absolutely no give. Facing away from the door, he couldn't see or do anything. Fear and outrage coupled to produce panic he could do nothing with.

"You can't leave me like this," he said, half-pleading. "Patrick? Come on, man!"

"I'm sorry," the orderly said and he sounded like he really meant it.

Then the door squealed shut and he was left in darkness.

..

After several minutes of standing there in the darkness Tate became aware of two things. First, there was a slim amount of light coming in from a small window in the iron door behind him. Second, his arms were beginning to tingle from lack of circulation.

He tried to move them but the chains in the wall were drawn tight. He couldn't do more than make the links clink faintly. He found he could sway around the midsection and even crouch just a little if he was willing to feel a tug in his shoulder sockets. Apart from that limited motion he was held fast.

Fortunately his medication had stripped him of pain but the boredom eventually overtook him. He couldn't sleep standing up and fastened in place. He experimented a bit more with gravity, letting the chains support his full weight. But that hurt so he stopped quickly.

He hoped Dr. Thredson would free him soon.

..

It was almost a half hour before the metal door squealed open again. Tate's heart jumped with hope and anxiety. He tried to turn his head to see who it was but the way he was positioned and the angle of the light coming in through the doorway prevented that. He could only see a dark silhouette rustle by his peripheral vision then the person was too close to see.

"So why did you keep them?" Sister Jude said without preamble, solving the mystery of her identity for him. "Were you trading them to other patients?"

"No," Tate responded, showing attitude despite the fact that he was restrained. "Those were the ones I couldn't throw away."

Only after the words were out did he think that might not have been the best thing to admit.

"So you haven't been taking any of your medication," Jude said loftily. "No wonder your behavior hasn't improved."

"I have so taken some," he objected, even though he'd technically only been routinely taking the pain medication. That still counted.

"Your mattress says otherwise."

Tate glowered and said nothing. He decided he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of conversation.

Only she didn't need or want it. She reached around and unfastened his pants. The blue bottoms fell to the dark stone floor and she yanked his underpants down to join them. His stomach clenched up. He shut his eyes and tried to brace himself, hoping the lingering effects of the pain medication would help with whatever was about to come.

"Maybe one day you'll learn the rules apply to you, too," said Sister Jude.

There was a soft whistle of wood cutting air then the cane struck his bare ass. The tool was a more serious stick than the whip-like thin one she'd used on him previously. The one she struck him with now was a Singapore punishment cane, a half-inch-thick bamboo rod stained dark cherry. It was glossy and knotted and vicious against bare skin. It wasn't a tool for speed; each welt the nun applied took several seconds to fully surface and she waited patiently for each angry red mark to rise before laying another beneath it.

It took an agonizing eternity for her to cover his whole backside to her satisfaction. After each stroke she moved the length of hard wood down and pressed it against his skin where she planned to strike next, making him dread the blow until it finally came. It was brutal; over thirty strokes that would leave lasting marks on his flesh. He could feel warm blood trickling down his ass when it was over. His throat was raw from his cries of pain.

Exhausted and whimpering in agony, Tate wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere but he couldn't move from the T-position he was locked in. Sister Jude left him then and for a wild moment he believed it all was a vivid, bizarre dream. It couldn't be real. He couldn't really be in some dark dungeon of a room, beaten and drugged, imprisoned for an indeterminate period.

But he was. He very much was. The reality of the situation was terrifying.

The door squealed open on its rusty hinges again, making his heart lurch into a rapid-fire beat. There was a rustle of footsteps behind him followed by even more rustling. Then a light touch on his butt made him flinch. Gentle fingers spread a cool, soothing salve over the first welt and then on down, covering every inch of the damage. The balm didn't take the pain away but it did tone it down quite a bit. Tate gave a soft sigh of gratitude once the first aid was finished.

"You should use your time in here to pray for guidance," said Sister Jude.

The sound of her voice startled him. For some reason he'd assumed the person providing him with relief was an orderly. Certainly not Sister Jude. Not with that gentle touch that so contradicted her stern tone.

But she was the only other person in the tiny room. When she left, he was alone in darkness once more.

..

Somehow Tate managed to sleep. It was more of a system shut down than true sleep and not at all restful but it did spare him from some of the pain and discomfort he was in. His escape was interrupted by the squeal of rusty hinges and for a moment he didn't know where he was. He tried to roll over but the chains were inflexible and reminded him of his position.

He felt a straw at his lips and suddenly realized he was very thirsty. Without thinking he eagerly seized the straw with his lips and gulped cool liquid. The water had a faint aftertaste but he didn't know if it was drugged or just the cup.

Then the cup was taken away and footsteps behind him retreated. Tate turned his head to try and see the person but again the angle was bad no matter which shoulder he tried to look over. He saw white clothes and nothing more.

"How long am I gonna be here?" he said, hating how desperate he sounded.

The orderly didn't answer. He just left.

The water, it turned out, was indeed drugged. Quite heavily, in fact. Tate didn't have much time to worry about how long he'd be in restrained seclusion before he was unconscious.

..

Motion woke him next: With a sudden clank the chains holding his arms went slack, jolting him into bleary consciousness. He collapsed, unprepared to stand on his own. Fortunately there was just enough give in the chains on his ankles that he didn't hurt himself but he was very confused.

A moment later Cecil was beside him, unlocking the manacles on his wrists and legs.

"Get up," the orderly said once he was finished. "Put your pants on, son. You got a visitor."

Tate tried to comply but he was still sedated and pain slowed him down as well. With much effort and even more pain he got his bottoms back on. Getting to his feet was another struggle and in the end Cecil had to help him up. Walking was a nightmare that brought tears of pain to the boy's eyes. But better to walk in agony than stay in that cell.

Limping, he was taken to a room that looked a bit like a small cafeteria only without the serving line. Several small, round tables dotted the area, flanked with chairs. All the furniture was bolted to the floor. A guard stood at the door watching the room with a bored sense of detachment. Cecil led Tate to the only table where there was a person sitting.

The man got up as they approached. Father Michael was older than Tate remembered him and had a bigger, softer belly. His hair was peppered with gray and he had smile lines etched around his eyes and mouth. He still wore the suit of a priest and his gray eyes were sad but loving. He opened his arms.

Tate hesitated a few feet away and looked up at Cecil. The orderly turned and left. Tate looked back at the priest and regarded him from head to toe and back again.

"What're you doing here?" he said bluntly. "I'm not supposed to have visitors."

The man finally put his arms down, looking faintly disappointed. "Reverend Howard has graciously granted my request to see you."

"Why would you do that?"

"You're going to have surgery," said the priest. "I-"

"You _left_," Tate interrupted, not listening. He had discovered he didn't really care why the man had come. "You said you would always be there and you left."

Father Michael sighed and clasped his hands before him. He wanted to reach for the young man but he didn't want to be rejected again. "I didn't have a choice."

"Yes, you did," insisted Tate.

"I was relocated, Tate. It wasn't my choice."

"You could have said no!"

"No," said Father Michael. "I couldn't. That's not how the Church works. They're kind of like the Army that way."

"Bullshit," said Tate but there was less vehemence in that vulgar statement.

He didn't know just how bureaucratic the Catholic church could be or what might happen to a priest who refused to transfer when a Cardinal told him to. Tate also didn't know that Father Michael had been relocated to avoid legal charges and potential jail time stemming from a scandalous incident Tate had been blissfully sheltered from. A transfer was mandatory on many levels.

But Father Michael hadn't told Tate that then and he wasn't going to tell him in the visitor's room at Briarcliff. So he just stood there helplessly gazing at a boy he'd helped raise who had turned into a killer. It broke his heart.

"I know I failed you," the priest said sadly. "And I know apologies can't undo that but I do apologize, Tate. I'm sorry I hurt you. And I'm sorry to see you in this place."

"Then get me out!"

"I can't do that," said Father Michael. "It's not within my power."

"You got in here!"

"That's a different matter. As a priest, I can go anywhere my brethren can. That doesn't mean I can release people from the sanitarium."

Tate pawed at his hair, making it stick up. His ass was killing him - worse than his headache - and his patience with the current situation was nearly exhausted.

"Why're you here, then?" he demanded, unaware that he was repeating a question he'd already asked.

"I just wanted to see you-"

"Well, you've seen me," Tate interrupted again. "If you can't help me, then go away."

He didn't wait for the man to respond but turned and limped for the door.

"We're done," he said to the guard stationed there. It occurred to him that he was probably setting himself up to be put back into restraint but at that moment he preferred that over spending another moment with the priest.

The guard radioed Cecil who returned to collect Tate. The teen didn't look back as they left.

..

Tate was taken to another seclusion cell, this one without chains. It was a small change that meant a world of difference.

He was left in the dark empty cell alone with his pain and unhappiness. Seeing Father Michael had done nothing to improve his day. He didn't need some phantom from his past turning up to shame him for what he did. The man had stepped out of Tate's life years ago, just like his real dad, and didn't deserve a place in it again. Especially now.

His backside was beginning to ache even more. He was glad it was dark in the room because he knew he would look at the damage if he could and frankly he was scared of what he would find. He could feel how bad it was. Seeing it would only make it hurt more. He moved as little as possible to prevent chafing of cloth against injured skin. At that moment he would have preferred the hated hospital gown because it would mean some relief.

Unable to sit down, Tate slowly wandered the perimeter of the tiny room. When that got tiresome he finally mustered the courage to bend down. It was painful, bending, but he got himself down to the floor where he stretched out on his front and put his forehead down on his folded arms. The floor was cold, hard concrete. The chill from it quickly seeped through the thin asylum-issued uniform but he didn't want to risk rolling over.

As he lay there his thoughts began to wander. He wondered what 'normal' was. A normal life. He'd heard the word 'normal' tossed about quite a bit, especially over the past couple of weeks, and he was coming to the conclusion that there wasn't any such thing.

People liked to pretend that there was such a thing as 'normal' because it made them feel safe. 'Normal' meant there weren't ghosts and dead things in the basement that could kill you. 'Normal' meant dead was dead was dead and you either went to heaven or hell. 'Normal' didn't allow for things like nuns with canes and doctors armed with experimental drugs and electrodes and mothers who slept with men who would murder their children.

Tate wondered how many people really lived 'normal' and how many just pretended because they were too afraid to admit the fucked up things that happened behind the closed doors of their homes. And he wondered if normal was so elusive and mythical, why everyone felt such a dire need to believe in it. Believing in 'normal' seemed stupider to him than believing in the Great Pumpkin.

Thinking about the Great Pumpkin made him smile. It was from a show he and his siblings had watched a couple of years ago, by the guy who made the Peanuts strip in the funny papers. Tate and Beau had loved Charlie Brown's ghost costume with the eyeholes all over it.

"If somebody gave me a rock for trick-or-treat," he'd told his siblings boldly. "I'd throw it through their window."

But the part where Linus sat in the pumpkin patch had really snared him. It had bothered him that Linus was so short-sighted that he couldn't figure out to go trick-or-treating early and then go sit in the damned patch to wait for his harvest god. On the other hand, Linus did end up with the girl, which said something.

Thinking about the show made him miss his brother and sister. He'd done a good job of not thinking about them since he'd regained his senses but it was impossible not to, here in the dark, with nothing else to do. It was awful knowing that no matter how much he wanted to talk to Beau, that was never going to happen again. Even if Tate could have visitors, Beau was stuck in the house. Addie would have to depend on their mother to come see her little brother. He had no doubt the older girl would pester Constance mercilessly but he also knew that the woman was a tank. If she didn't want to drive out to Briarcliff, she wouldn't.

But she had sent Tate a care package. Obviously she didn't hate him over what had happened. He didn't know how to feel about that. He was still carrying a grudge against her for ever getting involved with Larry in the first place - that's what led to everything unraveling, as far as Tate could see. He blamed her for everything, up to and including his current situation. If it hadn't been for her actions, Beau would be alive and Tate wouldn't even be in Briarcliff. But she had sent him a care package.

He sniffled, only then becoming aware of the fact that his eyes were dripping a little. In the position he was in, the warm tears fell directly from his lashes onto the concrete.

..

* * *

><p>Author's note:<p>

So I went to research heavy caning since I don't know much about it. I figured Sister Jude would break out the big guns for this infraction so I wanted to find something nice and severe. I managed to accidentally stumble on a website for the company who actually supplied AHS Season 2 with Sister Jude's canes, including one modified Singapore punishment cane that she's featured holding on the cover of Rolling Stone. Talk about fate.

So I had to use that cane, naturally. Reading up on how it's used and the effects it has... wow. Even if you're not into BDSM, it's worth reading about just for the historical use of it starting in Singapore on prisoners. It's a pain that really sticks with you.

If you're curious, you can see the cane here: canes4pain dot com slash americanhorrorstorycaneprint dot jpg. Sorry about the way it's written. Fanfic doesn't do URLs.


	4. Chapter 4 - Decisions

..

"I'm sorry," Father Michael apologized. "I thought I might be of some help but he wouldn't speak to me."

"It's been a rough few days for him," said Oliver Thredson. They were in his office. He put out his cigarette and dropped the butt in the ashtray. "He's afraid of surgery."

"I can't say I blame him," said the priest. Then he looked stricken. "I just wish there was something I could do to help."

"How long are you going to be out here?"

Father Michael shrugged. "My plane leaves Monday."

"There's still time," said Thredson confidently.

..

After his brief meeting with the priest Oliver went to check on his patient personally. He hadn't been informed of the restraints; only that Tate had been put into seclusion after the pills had been found in his mattress.

The turn of events had been eating at the therapist's thoughts for the past couple of hours. He'd seen the haul they'd taken from the bed and while the doctor hadn't counted them, he could tell it represented roughly half of the medication the teen should have been taking. It explained a lot about his erratic and unmanageable outbursts. But given that he had a tumor requiring surgery, the doctor couldn't really see the sense in getting too worked up over the long term. In a way, it was fortunate. After surgery they could start with a clean slate and assess the patient's needs as things developed.

It was the duplicity that bothered him.

He had felt he'd made significant progress toward gaining Tate's trust and the situation with the medicine made him feel like the boy had been sitting there lying to him every session. Lying by omission. He wouldn't admit it but he also resented the indication that he had less control over the situation - and the patient - than he'd thought.

But when he located Tate's cell and opened the door to find him sprawled on the floor, the irritation abated. The blond teen stirred and turned his head, squinting at the light streaming in through the doorway.

"Hello, Tate," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Tate volunteered candidly. He pushed himself up a little so he could see the doctor better. "Sister Jude was pissed."

Oliver got a sinking feeling in his middle. He bit his tongue to keep from swearing but his hands clenched involuntarily. "I see. That's unfortunate." He paused, then said: "Why were you hiding your pills in your bed?"

"I didn't want to take them. They made me feel funny."

"I understand," said the doctor patiently. "But why keep them? Why not throw them away?"

Tate stirred. "I don't know. I guess maybe in case they turned out to be useful."

"You weren't giving them to anyone?"

"No." The teen wrinkled his nose. "I don't know what they are. Why would I give them to somebody?"

Thredson found a strange sort of innocence in that statement, especially coming from a murderer. "You understand this will affect how medication is delivered to you in the future, don't you?"

He hadn't thought about that but it made grim sense to Tate. He made a face but he didn't say anything.

After it was clear Tate wasn't going to say anything, Oliver moved on. "Doctor Heath has you scheduled for surgery tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow?" Tate forgot about his backside and knelt up, alarmed. "No!"

"Tate, there isn't any time," the doctor said. "And I'm afraid you don't have a choice. The surgery is scheduled. The state will pay for it since your mother doesn't have insurance to cover it. If you cooperate-"

"I don't want anybody cutting me open!"

"Please, calm down," the doctor urged. He really didn't want to see Tate go down the hard road on the matter of surgery. "Getting worked up isn't going to help you and it isn't going to change things."

Tate could read in the man's round face that he believed what he was saying. Panic made the boy's heart race like a rabbit's. He wanted to run. Fear energized him. He eyed the open door.

"Don't," said Dr. Thredson, catching the glance. "Carl's right outside."

Frustration made Tate give a growl of a groan. "It's MY head!" he exploded. "You can't just cut me open!"

"We have your mother's authorization in writing," said Oliver quietly. He didn't really want to tell the boy that but he thought it would do more harm in not disclosing it, at this point.

The news hit Tate like a bucket of cold water. He was stunned for a moment then he thawed into bitter humor. Of course his mother would sign off on something so tortuously barbaric. She would probably authorize a mind control device if they could put one of those in too.

"The tumor isn't going to just go away," the doctor went on. "You know that. I know you're very scared right now but I also know you're smart enough to understand how things will go if your condition goes untreated."

Tate was silent for a long moment as the man's gentle words settled in. "What if I want to die?" he said at last in a tremulous voice.

Oliver sighed. "You don't have that choice."

The teen gave a strangled cry then and folded over himself, fingers knotting in his hair. He thought wildly about how he might escape Briarcliff, rapidly running through a mental map of known exits and obstacles. But the outcome was the same as when he'd been casually thinking of escape while falling asleep at night. There simply wasn't opportunity or means. He could avoid guards and orderlies for a time, but never anyplace where it would turn into a way for him to exit the building.

For a desperate instant he considered knocking Dr. Thredson out of the way and bolting out the door anyway. Maybe he could slip by Carl. His thoughts got as far as the double set of locked iron doors that separated the seclusion area from the main tunnel.

He was trapped.

He felt a hand on his back, petting in a gentle, steady way. It distracted him from his panicked thoughts long enough to snap him out of the 'flight' response to his fear. He broke then, just for a moment, and cried. The storm was turbulent but only lasted a few seconds before he shored himself up inside and forced his head up. He looked at the doctor miserably.

"We'll get through this," the doctor insisted with conviction. He gave Tate's upper arm a bracing squeeze. "I'll be there before and after the surgery."

Tate found a small dose of comfort in that. "Do I have to stay in here till then?"

"That depends on you," said Oliver. "If you are willing to cooperate, I can have you moved to a more comfortable room. Are you willing to cooperate?"

Tate didn't want to cooperate but he wanted to stay in the dungeon-like cell even less. At least in a normal room he'd have a better chance for making an escape plan that would work.

"Yes," he said. "Can I have something for the pain too?"

"We'll see," said the doctor noncommittally. "Right now let's get you transferred and cleaned up."

...

Further plans for escape were thwarted by heavy attention during clean-up and padded restraints once he was put in a room. The room wasn't his usual cell in the men's ward though it was furnished in much the same severe way: A bed, a chair and a built-in cabinet were the room's only furnishings. The bed was somewhat nicer than his usual one but the fact that he was strapped hand and foot to the thing spoiled whatever benefit that might give.

Struggling against the restraints was a futile and tiring pursuit that Tate abandoned soon after starting. They were an improvement over the chains and manacles, to be sure, being that they were cloth and fiber. But they were just as effective at keeping him in place as the chains.

With nothing to do, he slept for a while. The doctor had given him a mild pain reliever - nothing too strong before surgery - and he was worn out from the events of the past few hours. At one point a nurse woke him to spoon-feed him some broth and then he slept again.

...

Constance told herself she was visiting for his sake but really she was going to Briarcliff for herself. If something happened while Tate was in surgery, she would be devastated. As it was, she'd had to see the scans for herself before she would sign off on the procedure. And while it was a relief to know that there was a physical reason for why her son had gone crazy, the solution wasn't without risk.

She and Father Michael traveled to the asylum together the morning after she got the news that the surgery had been scheduled. Finding Tate bound hand and foot to his bed brought tears to his mother's eyes but she refused to let them fall. She had to be strong.

"Tate? Sweetheart?" she said as she approached his bed.

He stirred and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus on her. They had him sedated.

"Hi," he said after a moment. He blinked slowly.

"Hello, honey," said Constance. She sat down on the edge of his bed and showed him the little brown teddy bear she'd brought with her. "I brought this for you. Somethin' soft. They said you could have it when you were feelin' better."

Tate looked at the stuffed animal then back at his mother's face. "I'm thirsty."

She looked around and, spying a jug and a small plastic cup, she poured him some water. She taste-tested it first to be sure it was water and when she was certain, she helped him to a drink. When he had his fill she set the cup back down.

"Don't be scared," she said then. "Soon this will all be over and you'll be feelin' right as rain."

"We're all praying for you," added Father Michael behind her.

At the sound of his voice Tate stiffened. "Why'd you bring him?" he demanded, growing agitated despite the medication. "I said I didn't want him here."

"Tate," Constance said reprovingly. "Father Michael is a friend of ours."

"No, he's not," said the teen. "Make him go away."

"But he came all this way-" his mother started but Father Michael held up a hand.

"It's all right," he assured her. "I would rather respect his wishes. I'll be outside."

He left then and Constance looked at her son. "I know you're not feelin' well but that wasn't very nice."

Tate smiled. Now that the man was gone he was feeling much better. And sleepier. "You make it sound like I've got a head cold," he joked drowsily. He was too drugged to really care.

"He just wants to see you get better," she tried again.

"I'm tired," said Tate. He let his eyes shut. The lids were too heavy to keep fighting with. "Are you gonna stay during the surgery?"

"I can't be in the room while they're operatin'," she said, taking his hand. She clasped it with one hand and pet the back with the other. "But I'll be here at the hospital."

"Okay," he said. Then he was asleep again.

She kept holding his hand for a long time after.

...

Violet had overheard Dr. Thredson talking to Sister Jude about Tate's pending surgery and how badly the boy was taking the forced procedure. The whole thing seemed very strange to her.

While she understood why the surgery was recommended, she didn't understand why it was being required, especially if the patient was against. Considering the crime Tate committed, she was doubly confused as to why the state would want to spend money on a surgery to sustain his life when he might get the death penalty. Why not just let him die naturally if he wanted to?

Not that she had a particular desire to see that happen but... if he didn't want the surgery, then why force the issue?

She decided she would have to do something.

..

"Wake up."

The whisper in his ear brought Tate around and he found himself blinking at Violet. She was dressed in her work uniform. She glanced toward the door then back at him. Her long light brown hair tickled his cheek. He thought he must be dreaming.

"Come on," she whispered. She opened the buckle on his nearest cuff, freeing one hand. "Undo your other hand. I'll get your ankles."

She moved to do just that and, after a moment to admire her moxie, Tate tugged the other cuff open. Soon he was on his feet and rubbing his wrists appreciatively.

"How'd you get in here?" he asked.

"The door's not locked," she said with a slight smile. "I guess they figure since you're tied up, there's no need to lock it. Come on. We have to hurry. Max is screwing the night nurse but they won't be doing it forever."

"Where are we going?" he said, following her to the door. He felt like he was walking through a cloud.

She pushed the door open a crack, peeked out, and then when she was sure the coast was clear she opened it all the way to reveal a cleaning cart in the hall. It was draped in dirty towels that she lifted to expose a small hiding spot beneath. Tate looked at it then beamed at her.

"Come on!" she said with quiet urgency.

He ducked into the hidey hole and she arranged the towels so he couldn't be seen. Then she shut the door to his room and wheeled the cart away.

..

No one stopped her or even looked twice at her as she pushed the cart down the halls and to the front foyer. They were almost home free. There was just one last hurdle to cross.

"I'm going to distract the guard," she whispered to the cart as she pushed it slowly past the statue of St. Mary. "When I say... when I say 'Do you think it's going to rain', come out and stay close to the wall. Head for the door but stay low. You'll have to hurry out when I open the door. I left some clothes for you behind the bushes to the left of the front steps."

She parked the cart near the wall and went around to the guard station that monitored the front doors. Violet put on a friendly face and approached the man who was seated there. He was a pit-faced fellow in his late 40's. He looked more like someone she would expect to see on a Wanted poster rather than in a guard's uniform.

"Hey," she said casually. She folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward a little. "Quiet night?"

"Yep, up here," the guard said with a smile. He liked the attention of a pretty young candy striper.

"No new psychos coming in?"

"Nah," the man chuckled. "Not tonight. I hear they're bringing a fella up in a couple of weeks from Bellevue though... some cannibal nut that thinks he's a werewolf."

Violet blinked. She hadn't expected to hear anything interesting; she was just trying to distract the man. "Seriously?"

The guard nodded gravely. "They say they found body parts of at least five different people in his apartment." When Violet's eyes widened, the man warmed to his creepy tale. "They found a head in the freezer and a woman's torso cut up on his table. They think he lured women there and killed 'em but they're still trying to identify if all the victims are female. They haven't found enough parts yet."

Violet's shoulders hunched up in revulsion and she made a face. "And he's coming here?"

"That's what they're saying."

"Wonderful," she muttered, feeling it was anything but. She already knew what her father was going to say when he found out. He would want her to quit working at the asylum. Suddenly she realized it was she who was getting distracted so she put on a smile. "Well, on that happy note I'm going to head home. Do you think it's going to rain? I have to wait for a bus..."

"Nah," the man said. "I was out there earlier and it's clear as a bell. You should be fine."

"Oh, good. Well. Have a nice night. Don't work too hard."

She acted like she was going to wave then and 'accidentally' knocked the man's coffee cup off the desk. It tumbled to the floor on his side of the desk. It didn't break but it did spill coffee everywhere.

"I'm so sorry!" she cooed earnestly.

"Oh, that's okay," the man said as he bent down to pick up the cup.

She motioned for Tate to dart out from the shelter of the reception desk to the door.

"I'm sooo sorry," she apologized again as she backed toward the exit. "I have to go or I'll miss my bus. Good night!"

She ducked outside then and looked around for Tate. He was already out of sight when she stepped onto the wide porch out front.

"Scrubs?" his quiet voice came from the shadows between the bushes and the cracked brick asylum wall.

"It's all I could find," Violet whispered back. She kept an eye out as she slowly headed down the stairs, giving him time to put the items on.

There were no shoes for him; just the pants and shirt. It was better than the hospital gown but it meant he was barefoot and coatless in September in Massachusetts. Violet was only slightly better off in her work dress, apron and sneakers. She had a sweater that would have been fine for the bus ride home but wasn't terribly effective for extended periods outdoors.

"Are these your socks?"

She smiled, a touch self-conscious. "I couldn't find any for you but I didn't want you to be completely barefoot out here. I hope you don't mind that they're worn."

"I don't," he laughed. "I hope you don't mind if I stretch them out. My feet are bigger than yours."

"I don't. Besides, the walk will kill them anyway so... stretch all you want."

When he emerged, the boy had a twig in his hair. He looked at Violet with large eyes. "I can't believe I'm actually outside."

"Yeah, well," she said. "Let's keep it that way. Come on."

They headed quickly away from the institution then - as quickly as Tate could go while sock-footed and drugged.

..

They got across the covered bridge that led to the highway without mishap or seeing any vehicles but as they approached the bus stop Violet hesitated.

"No," she murmured. "This is wrong." She looked up at the blond boy seriously. "We can't take the bus. The driver will see you. When they come looking for you..."

Tate ran a hand through his hair. She was right. He was glad she was there to help him think because he was finding it really difficult to do with his head all full of medicine. "I guess we're walking then. But... where?"

"My house," Violet said. "You can hide in the shed for now. I can get you some food. Then we can decide where to go from there."

..

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

From the time they were established in the late 1800's all the way to the mid 1980's, many US asylums performed surgeries on patients without the consent of those patients. Surgeries ranged from sterilization to lobotomy, amputation, blinding and more. Often the only thing the asylum would need would be the signature of one friend or relative. In cases of inmates who had no relatives that could be found, doctors would often have nurses sign the consent forms and operate anyway. Who would complain?

Now. Violet. OMG. That was not in my outline or plans. I'd intended to have her overhear the convo between Oliver and Jude and then go confront her dad about the matter. When she took off with Tate I had to shut down my Word program and take a break for the rest of the day. This single event completely threw off the time line I'd charted. I think there's still hope for salvaging it but at this point I'm just along for the ride. I hope we end up someplace that's not too dangerous.


	5. Chapter 5 - Run, run run

..

They had to take the long way, keeping off the road while staying beside it so as not to get lost. Every time a car passed, they would duck down in the ditch that ran alongside the road. It meant getting down in the dead leaves and muck but they remained unseen.

It was a surreal experience for Tate, drugged as he was. His eyes adjusted to the darkness easily but the world looked alien to him in his altered state of mind. Everything seemed to have a silvery lining etching it, making the world look flat and yet it glowed faintly. He reasoned it must be moonlight but he'd never seen moonlight look like that before.

It was cold out. He could see his breath come in puffs of misty silver fog. In the darkness Violet was dark gray. Ghostlike. More than once he reached out and touched her just to be sure she was actually there. The third time he did it she looked at him funny.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

He smiled, dimples showing in the pale moonlight. "Just making sure you're not dead."

"No," she said. "I'm not dead. Come on. You're going to freeze if we don't hurry."

..

When they finally got to Violet's house Tate was shivering so badly his teeth were chattering. His feet were numb and his ears hurt from the tips all the way inside to the ear drums. It felt like he had icicles in his nose. His arms felt frozen solid in the tight hug he had around his waist.

Violet led him to a shed in the small back yard, a tin structure resembling a barn. Quietly she let him inside.

"Wait here," she said quietly. "I'm going to get you a blanket and stuff. Don't. Go. Anywhere."

She pushed the door shut then and hurried up to the house, pulling her sweater tight around herself. She was so anxious her arms felt weak. Not her knees, like the stories always said, but the bends of her elbows. It was enough to make her fingers tremble.

In the house she felt obligated to stop by her father's den when she saw the light on - not just to say hi but to make sure he was going to be in there long enough for her to gather the things Tate needed. She'd never felt so much pressure in her life, thinking about what she needed to do while hoping that the blond boy stayed where she left him.

"Hey," she said. "I'm home."

"Hi, sweetheart," her dad said, barely glancing up from the file he was looking at. "Mom's laying down but there's stuff in the refrigerator to make a sandwich with."

"Okay," she said, leaning on the doorjamb like it was a normal evening. "What're you looking at?"

She didn't really care but she needed to seem normal.

"Just a case file from work," he said distractedly.

"Oh," she said. "Okay. I'm going to go eat now."

"All right," he said.

She hurried to the kitchen then and gathered up a dishtowel full of lunch meat, bread, mayonnaise, the orange juice and a butter knife. Then she practically ran to the linen closet to grab a spare pillow and a few old blankets. Heavily burdened, she moved as quickly as she could back out to the back yard.

"Tate," she hissed as she neared. "It's me."

She managed to get the door open. He had been sort of sprawled on her dad's riding lawn mower but he got to his feet when she staggered in with the stuff. He smiled and moved to help her.

"Wow. Thanks," he said.

It wasn't nearly as cold in the shed as it was outside in the wind. The three blankets she'd grabbed would make the place livable. He wrapped one around himself, shaking badly. Then he stood on another and kicked it around to spread it out a little without having to come out of his blanket poncho.

Violet put the towel of food down on the work bench and, seeing Tate with the blankets, looked around for something more that could be used for a bed. They had lawn chairs but nothing that would double as a bed. She did find an old tarp though and she spread that out behind the sawhorse, where Tate would be out of direct sight should someone come in.

"Here," she said. "Come over here."

He did but he left the other blankets behind so she went and got them. She spread one out on the tarp.

"Do you want the other one on the floor?" she asked. "Or around you?"

He thought about it. Thinking was even harder than before. He just wanted to sleep. "Around me."

She went to wrap the blanket around his shoulders but he ducked aside.

"Wait," he said. "I wanna lay down. Then wrap it around my legs and feet. Okay?" He was too worn out to be more polite than that.

Violet waited till he was settled then she swaddled his legs up. After he was bundled she fetched the pillow and slid it under his cheek. He smiled a blissful smile, eyes shutting.

"Do you want to eat?" she asked.

"Nah," he sighed. "Sleep."

"Okay," she said. "I'll leave it here on the work bench for you."

"'Kay."

"I'll stay a bit, if you want."

"'Kay."

She sat down beside him on a corner of the tarp and pet his hair. He was asleep almost instantly. As she watched him sleep she wondered what the hell they were going to do next.

...

Frustration had Oliver on edge. He considered himself an even-tempered individual, understanding and kind. He didn't like it when someone else forced him out of that mold.

Why couldn't others just leave him alone to do his job?

He thought about Ben again and ended up pressing down too hard, cutting too deep. Angered further by the careless mistake, he slammed the X-acto knife down on the table. He took a deep breath then and peeled off his bloody gloves so he could rub his temples. Massaging, he released the breath slowly in a long sigh.

There was nothing he could do at the moment. As frustrating as that was, it was a fact.

He looked down at the plate-sized piece of skin on the art desk before him. The corner of the mouth he'd been working on was a lost cause. The whole piece wouldn't be good for anything now. It wasn't like a length of flank or shoulder. The workable area was too limited for anything other than a mask.

Oliver tilted his head and considered the woman's face, seeing inspiration suddenly.

He picked up the knife again and began to cut, trimming away the lower portion entirely. Once he was done he set the blade down and carefully lifted the skin off the wax paper. He held it up. Light poured through the eye holes, making the whole thing look black for a moment. It looked just like a masquerade mask - a domino, they were called.

His lips twitched in a small smile as he turned the gruesome mask around. He brought it up to his face then. It was cool and wet against his skin and stuck to it like it was still alive. Thredson brushed his fingers over the cheek and felt a hint of the touch through the mask on his own face.

He peeled the thing off again and heaved another sigh. He'd salvaged the project but he still felt like he'd wasted a lot of time a resources for what he was getting out of the effort. It was disappointing. It really was a crappy day when even the things that gave him pleasure were frustrating him.

But he had to finish up the process or the whole thing would be completely wasted. So he mopped his face with a rag, lit a cigarette, and set to tanning the skin. The owner's body behind him on the floor would have to wait.

He was busy for several minutes when he heard the sound of the phone over the sound of Tommy Dorsey and Frank Sinatra's "I'll Be Seeing You" playing on the radio. Stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray, he got up and turned the radio down but not off completely; he loved the classics. He lifted the telephone receiver and put it to an ear.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Thredson?" the voice that came thinly down the wire belonged to Sister Jude. "We have a problem."

...

"How could this happen?"

Oliver was beyond angry. As soon as he heard Tate had escaped, he cleaned up, threw on his coat and sped back to the asylum. The facility, usually quiet by night, was bustling with activity. There were nuns and police and orderlies and nurses and people everywhere.

Sister Jude was a whirlwind in the midst of it all, managing multiple people with ironclad self-control. They had retreated to her office where she took a position behind the desk but didn't sit. Instead she pressed both hands to the surface and met Oliver's angry gaze with a steely one of her own.

"We're still trying to figure that out," she responded tensely. She was just as furious about the security breach as he was, if not more so. "He was bound hand and foot and when he was last checked on. The nurse injected him with a sedative strong enough to knock out a horse. He didn't just get up and walk away on his own, doctor. Someone took him."

Oliver paced. Who would want to abduct a drugged up mass murderer? His thoughts went immediately to Ben Harmon but his instincts railed against the idea. As much as he disliked the man currently, he didn't believe his colleague was stupid enough to risk his career on literally stealing a patient from Thredson.

"Who all came and went during that time?"

"Barney, the guard who was on lobby shift, only saw three people during the time frame he could have disappeared," the nun said, straightening. She tucked her hands into the openings of her sleeves. "One was a deliveryman who dropped off a parcel and left. One was a nurse and one was a candy striper. The police are already working on getting statements from them."

"What's being done right now to find him?" Oliver paced some more. He was trying not to imagine what could be happening with Tate at the moment. The possibilities were too wild and disturbing.

Sister Jude took a breath. "The police are searching for him on the roads. There's a K9 unit on the way with a couple of dogs."

Dr. Thredson paused in his pacing to push his glasses up and rub his forehead. "Apart from the sedative, he's completely unmedicated."

"You think I don't know that?"

Oliver kept his hand on his forehead, unable to hold back the tidal wave of worries any longer. Once the sedative wore off, there would be nothing between the volatile patient and his overwhelming pain. Nothing to stop him from arming himself and acting on some of his bizarre notions. Unless whoever took him had a plan for incapacitating him somehow. Which was scary on another level to the doctor.

"What can I do?"

He was thinking out loud but Sister Jude answered him. "Put together a press statement for the public. If the news gets wind of this we need to be prepared. We need to tell them something that won't scare people."

"You want _me_ to talk to the press about this?" he blinked, snapped out of his worries.

"Someone has to," she said. "And you're his doctor."

"I wasn't even here when he escaped!"

"That doesn't matter," Sister Jude said archly. "You know him best. Who better to reassure the public?"

"I'm not certain they should be reassured," he said.

"Do it anyway."

...

"Did you see anything unusual when you left?"

The police officer speaking was sitting on one of the two couches in the Harmons' living room. It was late and Vivien was in her nightclothes. Violet sat between her parents, arms wrapped loosely around her middle, doing her very best to look normal. Her thoughts were split between the questioning and Tate out in the shed, sleeping and unaware of the danger nearby.

"No. I talked to the night guard," she said. "Then I left."

"You drive?"

"No. I took the bus."

"Did you see anyone on the bus that looked suspicious?"

Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes but her expression soured anyway. "Half the people on there. I've got school tomorrow. Is this going to take much longer?"

The man looked at what he'd written on his notepad then shook his head. "No, I think that's about all for now." He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a card that he handed to her dad. "If she remembers anything that could be helpful, give us a call."

Ben took the card, glanced at it, then put it into his pocket. "Thank you, officer," he said. He got up then to show the man to the door.

"I'm going to go get ready for bed," Violet told her mother.

"Okay, honey," Vivien said. "And Violet? Make sure your window is locked?"

Violet rolled her eyes and smiled. "Okay, mom."

The teen disappeared into her bedroom then where she paced and watched the clock till she heard the officer's patrol car pull away. Then she shoved open the window and climbed out into the dark yard. Keeping low, she ran to the shed and quietly let herself in. She worried that she might startle Tate but he didn't even stir.

"Tate," she whispered.

He shifted a little, smacked his lips, and was still. His pallet on the ground didn't look at all comfortable but he was unaware. Violet was still panicking inside but she hesitated saying anything more. If she woke him up, what would she do? He was in no condition to go anywhere or manage on his own.

She sighed and hugged her knees. Just one evening was enough for her to completely overturn her whole life.

Violet sat with Tate for several minutes, until she started to get stiff from sitting in the same position for too long. She knew what she would have to do next but knowing didn't mean she looked forward to it. She adjusted his blanket then got up and went back to the house, crawling back in through the window. She grabbed a duffel bag from her closet and threw a few clothes into it, her piggy bank money and some of her personal items that she didn't want to leave behind. After checking to make sure her parents had gone to their room she went to the kitchen and grabbed some canned goods, a manual can opener and a roll of toilet paper. She took one of her dad's jackets from the closet and a pair of slippers he never wore. They looked like they might be too big for Tate but better too big than too small.

Once she had everything she put on a coat and grabbed her dad's keys off the hook on the wall near the phone. She took the bag out to the car and put it on the floorboard of the back seat. Then she went around to the back yard and back into the shed.

Tate was exactly where she'd left him. She crouched down next to him and shook his shoulder.

"Tate," she said. "Tate, wake up. We have to go."

He stirred but didn't wake so she shook him harder.

"Tate. Wake up. We have to leave. The cops were here."

He opened his eyes and blinked at her a few times without recognition. Then a switch seemed to flip and his features relaxed. "What?"

"The cops were here," she repeated. "They're looking for you. We have to go. I've got my dad's keys."

He pushed himself up slowly. He was having trouble processing what she was saying. "Oh. Okay. Um. Okay."

She helped him to his feet and, with one of the blankets still around his shoulders, led him to the car parked out front. She helped him into the back seat where he lay down again. She got into the driver's seat and put the key in but she didn't start the engine. Instead she put it into neutral and let the car coast silently out of the driveway.

Only once they were fully on the street did she start the car. Her heart leapt with the engine. She was really doing this.

She took one last glance back at Tate then she put the car in drive.

...

"Hey, Doctor Thredson," Patrick greeted the dark-haired man in the upstairs hall as he was coming out of his office. "I heard they called you back in."

Oliver gave the tall orderly a grim look. "They did. And I'm going to need some coffee."

"There's a fresh pot down at the nurse's station," Pat said. "You going to be here all night?"

"I don't know," admitted Thredson. "I'm hoping they'll find him quicker than that but who knows what will happen. So I have to put together something to tell the press. They're going to be anxious to get the scoop on the mass murderer that escaped Briarcliff."

"Oh, that's a tough break," the orderly sympathized. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No," said Oliver. He forced a smile. He appreciated the other man's attempt at being helpful. "Not that I can think of."

"Yeah, well," said Patrick. "If you think of anything just let me know."

Thredson nodded and the two men went their separate ways. A cup of coffee later and Thredson was ready to write.

..

When the K9 unit arrived there was some necessary delay while the coordinating officer led the two German shepherds and their handlers around Tate's cell so the dogs could get a good scent on him. They used his pillow since there were no clothes in the room for them to sniff.

Once the animals had his scent they set to work sniffing frantically this way and that down the halls. There were a couple of immediate false leads when the dogs followed the patient's scent to the bathroom and into the common room. Then they oriented on the correct trail and the chase was on.

Oliver went with the search party. He wanted to be there if and when they located Tate, both to be on hand to help them corral the young man but also to protect him from potential brutality. He was confident he could get Tate to cooperate with him if he could talk to him. He didn't expect the police would even try that tactic.

It was a long, cold and dark search. The boy hadn't done much to hide his path. Here and there the environment had wiped out traces of his passage but his trail was easy for the dogs to find again. It was just a matter of a long walk. And the further they went, the more uneasy the doctor grew.

When he recognized the neighborhood he could hardly believe it.

When they approached Ben's house, he was beside himself with outrage and confusion. Why would Ben Harmon steal a patient from Briarcliff? The idea was simply astounding.

..

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

Sorry! Sorry! I know everyone's been waiting. I know because you've told me. I appreciate the notes and letters and I apologize for being a bit late with this chapter. The US holidays got me and I work retail. So. Yeah. Black Friday wasn't fun. But I've tried to make up for it with- another cliffhanger. Ha. Sorry again!

Violet: Ghostlike... a nod to Season 1. Next chapter's the last one of this episode. Will Tate and Violet be caught? I can tell you the last chapter's a real killer. Muwaha.


	6. Chapter 6 - Runaways

..

Pounding on the front door woke Ben and his first thought was: _What now?_

He pulled himself out of bed. His wife stirred and groaned softly, echoing his feelings exactly. He left the room and headed down the hall toward the front door, noting a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted some water but first: The door.

He opened the front door to a cluster of people: Police, dogs and, in the midst of it all, Oliver Thredson.

"Police," said the nearest officer needlessly. It was obvious who they were. "We've tracked a dangerous escaped mental patient to your home, sir. "

"What?" Ben blinked, fully awake now. His eyes felt gritty and burned with each blink but he was awake.

"Please stand aside, sir," the man said with authoritative urgency. "We need to apprehend the individual. He is very dangerous."

"He knows that," supplied Thredson irritably. "He works at the asylum."

Now it was the officer's turn to be surprised. Then he was instantly suspicious. "Sir, I'm only going to ask you one more time. Stand aside." Only he wasn't asking.

Ben bristled inwardly. "He isn't in here."

"That remains to be seen, sir," the officer said. Then he waved his fellow officers inside.

The bunch crowded past Ben. Once they were past he was left facing Thredson.

"What's this all about anyway?" he demanded, sensing the man's involvement wasn't merely coincidence.

"You tell me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Ben.

"A patient of mine whom you've been stalking goes missing," said Oliver with quiet intensity. "And the police track him to your house. Seems pretty simple math to me."

"Oh, please!" Ben exclaimed, torn between indignation and amusement that the man actually believed he would kidnap Tate. "You're paranoid."

There was barking from the search dogs outside. Vivien came out of the back bedroom, tying a belt around her satiny robe.

"Ben? What's going on?"

"I don't know, honey," he said. "Tate's escaped and the police think he's come here."

Vivien's brows knit. "Why would they think that?"

"The dogs tracked him here," Oliver supplied in a nicer tone than he'd used on Ben.

There was a bustle of activity and a couple of the officers came back inside, including the one who'd led the team into the house.

"Sir," he said to Ben. "Are you missing a vehicle?"

Ben squinted, about to ask him what he was talking about, then he realized. He hurried to the front door again and looked out at the driveway and saw it empty.

His car was gone.

"Oh, no," he murmured. Suddenly Tate's being at his house didn't seem so incredible after all. He looked back at the police and his wife. "He's stolen the car."

Oliver frowned. He was an excellent judge of character and it was beginning to look like Ben was genuinely innocent of any wrongdoing. Disappointing.

Suddenly uneasy, Vivien decided to go check on Violet. She knew it was silly. The girl wasn't a child anymore. But Vivien was still a mother and always would be. So she went and peeked in to make sure her daughter wasn't scared or upset.

"Ben!" she yelled. "Ben! Violet's gone!"

He came rushing to the door followed by the cops but there was nothing anyone could do at the door to the girl's room. She was, in fact, gone. He took his wife in his arms in an effort to console her but she was still reeling from the shock of the disappearance. She was numb against him.

"Jenkins," the officer said. "Get on the radio to HQ. Tell them to upgrade this case from an escaped patient to kidnapping." While the other cop darted out the door, the officer turned to the parents. "We'll do everything we can to get her back safe," he reassured. Then he looked at Dr. Thredson. "Do you know why he might've taken the girl?"

He shook his head even as he tried to divine what Tate might have been thinking. Kidnapping Ben's daughter seemed so random but then so did the clock tower shooting on the surface.

"I'm sorry," he said, truly regretful. Then he frowned deeper. "Wait. She works at the asylum."

The comment drew blank looks.

"Tate was strapped down hand and foot and heavily sedated when he disappeared," the psychiatrist said impatiently. "He couldn't have just walked off. Someone would have had to free him and practically carry him out."

"What are you saying?" Ben demanded, incredulous. "That my daughter let some psycho loose?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Oliver replied sternly. Whatever sympathy he'd felt for Ben evaporated instantly. "She's probably the one who took your car too. Tate can't drive. His mother wouldn't let him get a license."

He hadn't meant to disclose that bit of information but it hardly mattered under the circumstances.

"Look, we'll figure it all out later," the officer cut in. "Mr. Harmon? We need the make, model and license plate number of your vehicle."

"Doctor," Ben corrected automatically. Then he proceeded to give the policeman the information on his car.

The officer radioed the information in to headquarters and the bulletin went out. Then they had nothing to do but wait.

...

Violet drove south for a couple of hours, till the night sky started to turn navy. She knew people would probably be looking for the car by that point so she pulled into a roadside motel. It was a bungalow-style row hotel where the rooms were positioned side by side without an additional floor above. Just one level of rooms attached to a small office on the far left.

She peeked back at Tate after she put the car in park. He was still asleep. She didn't like the idea of leaving him in the car but she wasn't about to take him into the office. So she locked the doors and went inside.

The tiny reception area was neatly appointed and clean. It smelled of Pine-Sol. There was a 'Vacancy' sign turned on in the window and a check-in book on the desk but she didn't see anyone. So she rang the silver bell on the counter. Almost immediately a man came up from the back room. He had dark brown hair and eyes as dark as Tate's but not as warm.

"Hey," she smiled. "I'd like to rent a room."

"How many occupants?" the man asked. He handed her a pen.

She thought about saying two but decided against it. She could sneak Tate in and if anyone questioned the motel clerk later, he would say he hadn't had any couples stay there.

"Just me."

"Sign here." He pointed to a line in the book.

While she wrote a fake name he rang her up on the register. She paid in cash. He handed her a receipt and a key to room 6.

"Will you be needing help with your luggage?"

"Oh, no thanks," she smiled. "I travel light. Have a good night."

She headed out then and hopped back in the car. She drove around to the side of the motel and parked where the car wouldn't be seen from the road. Then she got her bag out and took it into the motel room. Leaving the door open, she went back for Tate.

That was the hard part: Getting him out of the car. She had to wake him up again and while it was easier than the first time, he wasn't as inclined to move since he was warm and on a seat that was far more comfortable than the floor of the shed had been. But she finally got him on his feet and helped him into the room as quickly as he would let her.

Once in the room she helped him to the room's only bed, a double with a quaint bedspread. Then she shut and locked the door and pulled the curtain closed over the window. She made sure Tate was tucked in and shook her head when she saw he was already asleep again. Whatever Briarcliff had given him sure was potent.

She looked around and took a deep breath, letting it go in a slow sigh. She had no idea what she would do after they'd both gotten some rest. She knew she should think of a plan but at the moment she was tired and achy and needed something to soothe her. So she started the shower. While she washed, she tried to map out what her next few steps should be.

Avoiding the police was obvious but that meant staying off the roads by day and keeping to ones less traveled. It also meant having a destination in mind. There were road maps in the car's glove box. She just needed to pick a direction. Maybe California.

Shampoo stung one of her eyes and she had to rinse a hand before she could rub at it. She didn't notice the shadow fall over the opaque white shower curtain - the silhouette of a man.

Anthony, the night clerk, had let himself into Violet's room with the manager key. Thinking she was alone and being fixated on what he was doing, he didn't notice Tate among the rumpled blankets on the bed. Knife in hand and wicked thoughts in mind for what he would do to her wet, white flesh before he cut her open, the man reached for the shower curtain.

When Violet heard the curtain slide sharply aside, she turned in surprise, arms moving to cover her nudity reflexively.

"What the hell?" she demanded angrily.

The man raised his knife and her eyes got wide as fear surged in over anger. Then the man staggered to the side as a bleary but incredibly pissed off Tate tackled him. The clerk hit the sink and the knife clattered to the floor. Violet got out of the shower and scrambled for it. She wasn't thinking, she was just acting. She couldn't let the man get the knife again.

Tate grabbed Anthony by the hair and tried to punch him in the face but the man twisted aside so hard Tate was left with a handful of black hair. He shoved Tate off and tried to rise. Violet panicked and shoved the knife in him.

The blade sank into the man's torso so smoothly it surprised her. She'd expected some sort of resistance since she'd planted the knife in his chest but she'd managed by accident to get it right between his ribs. Skewered through the lung and nicked through the base of the heart, the man stared at her, dribbled some blood from his lips and then sank to the floor. Violet let go of the knife handle as he went down.

Shocked by the turn of events she stood there shaking. "Tate..?"

He got to his feet and went to her. He grabbed a towel from the rack and put it around her, then he shut off the water. That done, he gathered her in a hug and looked at the body on the floor.

"Holy shit," he said, awed. A grin broke out. "Holy shit, Violet. You killed him."

"Did I?"

"I think so."

"Oh, God."

"Don't worry," he said brightly. He nuzzled her temple affectionately. "That asshole was gonna hurt you. He deserves what he got."

That was probably true but it didn't make Violet feel any better at the moment. Dread and anxiety made her stomach cramp. She'd killed a person. She'd stolen a mental patient and killed a person in the same night. Her knees got quaky and she would have sat down on the floor if it weren't for Tate's arms around her, holding her up.

"We need to get out of here," she mumbled through numb lips. "We don't know when the next shift starts. He'll be missed. Oh, God. Oh, shit."

"Shh," Tate said, squeezing her. "It's okay. We'll get through this. It's you and me. Okay?"

She nodded but her thoughts were racing. She felt like she needed to run; physically run. "I need to get dressed."

They were back in the car three minutes later and speeding away from the motel. They'd shoved the clerk's body into the bathtub and covered it with the quilt from the bed. They'd locked the door and soon the motel was a speck in the distance.

...

"Attention all listeners," the radio announced grimly later that day. "There has been an escape at Briarcliff Manor. The escaped inmate, Tate Langdon, is believed to have killed a motel worker early this morning and may have a hostage with him. Institutionalized for shooting 42 people at Boston University, he is considered armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend him. If you see this man, call the police immediately."

**xxx**

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

Anybody miss the blatant _Psycho _reference? Also embedded in the end there is_ Room 6_, another horror movie. The "attention all listeners' line comes from old radio and television shows that would always start the broadcasts about loose serial killers or mad gorillas that way. Couldn't resist.

I was expecting to be at Halloween already but this story hasn't gone the direction I expected. Of course. This happened with Season 1.5 also. So I guess we'll get to Halloween when we get there. I was not counting on Violet going all rogue.

This episode was _Skin and Bones_. Next one's called _Blood and Guts_. Muwaha. Incedentally, 'Skin and Bones' is also the title of a Mirah song. Mirah also did the song 'Special Death' for AHS Season 1 - the song most associated with Violet as it's the song playing when she and Tate hang out the first time.


End file.
